Move
by cautiousAlbatross
Summary: Dave Strider, asshole-in-training.


Your name is John Egbert, and Dave Strider is the bane of your existence.

You're walking down the corridor, quietly minding your own business, when someone shoves you, sticking a foot out so you trip over, barely managing to throw out a hand and catch yourself in time. Your glasses slip down your nose and dangle there, moments away from falling. Groaning, you push yourself into a sitting position and rearrange your glasses, squinting up at your tormentor.

"What do you want, Dave?" you ask.

He snatches your glasses from the bridge of your nose, and you sigh.

"Give them back," you say, holding out one hand.

You can just about make out those stupid ironic sunglasses he always wears, and you wish your vision weren't so awful. You think it would probably make this whole ordeal a lot more bearable.

"Give me my glasses," you say, your outstretched arm beginning to get tired.

"Oh, sorry, you want these?" he asks, dangling your glasses in front of your face, and you know better than to make a grab for them.

You don't reply, deciding not to rise to the bait, and just cross your arms, waiting patiently on the ground for the eventual return of your glasses. He holds them in front of you for a little longer, then drops them in your lap.

"You're no fun any more," he complains, sounding childish.

You retrieve your glasses and put them back on, the world coming back into focus. You look up at Dave's ironic eyewear, and smile cautiously. You hope he's planning on leaving soon. He stares at you for a bit longer, making you slightly uncomfortable, then snorts and leaves. You breathe a sigh of relief, and gather up your things. Not for the first time, you wonder why Dave has picked you as his victim.

Later, as school is ending, you're walking down the corridor again when you feel a familiar hand on your back, shoving you against the wall.

"Move," says Dave, "You're in my way."

You think about pointing out that he has the whole corridor to walk in, but decide against it, instead just moving out of his path, and hope he'll just walk on. Sure enough, it looks like it's your lucky day, and he leaves without saying anything else.

As you walk home, you're thinking about Dave Strider. You wonder why he's always picking on _you_ – it's not like he's mean to anyone else. It doesn't even really feel like his heart's in it. You always get the impression that he just wants a response from you – a response you're reluctant to give. Part of you thinks that you'd quite like to be his friend, if he could get his head out of his ass for long enough to realise that being friends with dorky John Egbert wouldn't ruin his cool reputation, which you think is overrated anyway. Mostly, you think that Dave Strider is a complete idiot.

The next day, predictably, begins with you landing face down on the floor, your glasses snatched from your face. Sighing, you sit up and squint at Dave, trying to make out more than a vague blur.

"Aren't you getting bored of this yet?" you ask.

"What?" he says, obviously taken aback.

You know perfectly well he heard you, so you don't repeat yourself, instead choosing to sigh and slump back against the wall, drawing your knees up to your chest. Above you, Dave seems to be thinking. You think it's about time he started.

"Get up," he says, reaching down and grabbing your hand, then pulling you to your feet.

"What?" you say, now at eye level for him.

He's uncomfortably close, his face mere inches away, his hands on the wall either side of your head, but you find you don't really feel nervous. You find you aren't actually scared of Dave Strider. If anything, you feel slightly sorry for him. You think he's probably just lonely. He doesn't say anything, and you stare into the inscrutable lenses of his sunglasses.

"Why do you wear those things?" you ask, "I mean, we're indoors. And it's winter. Don't they just make it harder to see?"

"What you fail to realise," he replies, his voice low and sounding amused, "Is that shut up Egbert don't question the shades."

You laugh, involuntarily jerking forwards and headbutting Dave, dislodging his shades and leaving them crooked. This only makes you laugh more.

"You dork," he says, but he's smiling.

"Hey," you say, grabbing the shades, "Got your glasses."

"You do realise I can see without them, right?" he says, raising one eyebrow.

"Wow, your eyes are red!" you gasp, your own eyes widening, "That's so cool!"

"Uh, thanks? I guess. People usually just think they're weird."

"How does anyone see your eyes if you're always wearing these stupid things?" you ask, raising the sunglasses, which he takes back off of you, but doesn't put on.

"Maybe when little dorks steal them?" he suggests, leaning in a little closer, and you admire the detail of his irises.

"Oh, shh," you say, rolling your eyes, "You know, you have beautiful eyes."

"No homo?" he asks, teasingly.

You laugh as you realise how that had sounded.

"Or yes homo?" he adds, his face going serious, one hand lifting your chin so you're looking into his eyes again.

You notice again how his faces is only a couple of inches away from yours, and your eyes widen as you realise something.

"I get it!" you say, grinning.

"What do you get?" he asks, his eyes wandering down to your lips.

"You're such an idiot," you say, ignoring the question.

"How am I-"

You close the distance between you and cut him off with a kiss. After a moment of stunned silence, he pulls away slightly.

"Hey, I was supposed to do that."

"Shut up, idiot," you say, rolling your eyes, "You know, tripping someone over on a daily basis isn't the best way to win their heart."

"Who said I want your heart?" he asks, pressing his body against yours, "I just want you for your body."

"Idiot," you say, pulling him back against you for another kiss.

"Dork."


End file.
